


You live the life you’re given

by Paintmeapicture



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, And now we have, F/M, Forced Cohabitation, I needed more Frank in DDs3 and more Karen in TPs2 ok, If Fisk was coming after Karen Frank would damn well do something about it, Mentions of canon typical violence, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Pre-Relationship, bed sharing, which is my favorite trope for these two for some reason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-12-25 15:33:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18264236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paintmeapicture/pseuds/Paintmeapicture
Summary: When Karen gets in over her head in an investigation, her friend Elektra hires a bodyguard to protect her.It’s a small world...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This happens after season one of The Punisher and is mostly canon compliant through there. Biggest changes are Elektra didn’t die at the end of Daredevil season two, and Billy wasn’t the villain in The Punisher season one. He’s still Frank’s friend because I LIKED Billy... right up until he betrayed Frank. 
> 
> I liked Daredevil season three and The Punisher season two but dang it, there just wasn’t enough Kastle.

He hadn't even wanted to take the assignment.

He hadn't wanted to start working at Anvil at all, but Bill convinced him. He had to have a job, and he might as well do something he was good at, right? But he'd been built for war, and following bigshot assholes around to keep them from getting kidnapped grated on him.

So when Bill came to him with a new bodyguard assignment, he almost said no.

“The client is Elektra Natchios,” Bill said, and paused as though Frank should know who that was. Frank just said okay, so Bill went on. “She wants you to protect a friend of hers. Some reporter, got in over her head on a story. Ms. Natchios is footing the bill, you'll be on constant duty. You just follow this reporter around and make sure she doesn't get killed, okay?”

For a moment, Frank is lost in memories of another reporter, a woman who helped him fight his own personal war — twice. She'd been a legal assistant when they met. His family had been murdered in front of him, and she helped him track down the people responsible, even when she didn't approve of his methods. Helped him again after leaving that law firm, yelled at him and argued with him and, once, let him use her as a human shield (he still has nightmares about that). He killed every last person responsible for that day by the carousel. It hadn't been revenge, not really.

It was an exorcism. And when he was done, he put it all behind him. Including her.

“Frank?” Bill draws him back to the present.

“Okay,” he says.

“Great. Ms. Natchios will be here soon to take you to her friend. She'll manage the introductions. Just remember that Natchios is footing the bill, not this reporter. So you do what she tells you, even if the reporter doesn't like it.”

“Reporter got a name?”

“I'm sure she does, but I don't know it. Just go with Ms. Natchios when she gets here. It's an open-ended contract, until the heat dies down, I guess.”

An hour later, Frank is in a town car with Elektra Natchios, listening to her explain the job as they head across town.

“She's very stubborn but she's taking on some very dangerous people and I simply can't stand by when there's something I can do about it,” she says in her soft English drawl. “That's where you come in. I don't care what she tells you, you're in my employ, so you don't stop guarding her until I say so. Got it?”

“Understood,” Frank says. They pull up outside an office building, _The_ _Bulletin_ emblazoned across the front of it. He’s starting to get nervous. Tells himself he's being paranoid. The world isn't _that_ small. Within minutes, they're standing outside an office. There's no name on the open door, and they don't go in.

“I'm going to go tell her what's happening,” Elektra says. “Wait here.” She closes the door behind her.

So Frank stations himself outside the office, standing at ease — a habit he's never quite lost from his past life as a Marine.

He tries to listen to the conversation inside. The door is thin, but not thin enough — he can just barely hear their voices. He can't hear the words, but the tones are enough — his reporter does not want a bodyguard. Elektra Natchios isn't budging, however.

“You might as well come in,” an annoyed voice says behind him. He turns and freezes.

“Karen?” He says. Why is his voice so hoarse?

“Frank!” Her initial shock is replaced by a smile. Is she happy to see him?

She steps back into the office, and he follows. A desk takes up one end of the room. On the other side is a seating area; a small sofa and two chairs surround a low table. Ms. Natchios is sitting in one of the chairs.

Framed news stories and a map of the city line the walls. There's paper everywhere — piles of folders on the desk, notepads strewn across the coffee table, archive boxes stacked under the window.

Karen sits on the sofa, gesturing for Frank to join them, but there's no way he could sit down right now. He shakes his head slightly, taking up his stance near the door. He can see out into the hall and still keep an eye on the two women.

“You two know each other?” Elektra asks.

Frank meets Karen's gaze, just for a moment.

“We… worked on a story together a while back,” Karen says. He doesn't know why she's protecting him. He'd been her source for the exposé she wrote on the botched sting that resulted in his family's deaths. She'd made sure the people responsible were exposed. Then he'd killed them, one by one. They'd fought about that. He didn't like to remember it.

“If you do this, you're dead to me,” she'd said. He'd believed her.

He did it anyway.

“He said his name was Pete,” Elektra says now. Frank trades another look with Karen, who raises an eyebrow at him.

“Middle name’s Frank,” he says. “Peter Francis Castiglione.” It had been the simplest way to make sure any slip ups — by him or anyone he knew before — are easily explained away. Elektra accepts the explanation, though Frank thinks she realizes there's more going on than meets the eye.

“Karen, you're in over your head,” Elektra says. “I can't stand by and let you get yourself killed, not when I have the means to do something about it. Just let me do this for you, okay?”

“I really don't need an armed bodyguard,” Karen argues. “I've written dangerous stories before. I always get through it. This one is no different.”

“I know a thing or two about this crime syndicate you're exposing,” Elektra shoots back. “Just trust me this once. You need protection.”

“Fine.” Karen never was one to give in with good grace. Frank feels the corner of his mouth tip up in a smirk. She hasn't changed a bit.

“Lovely,” Elektra says, standing to leave now that she's gotten her way. “Let’s have a girl’s night soon, darling, I haven't seen you in ages. Bye now!” She pauses in front of Frank, meeting his eyes. “Remember what I told you.” He nods once, sharply, and she's gone.

He finally looks at Karen again, and she holds his gaze for a long moment. He closes the door; nothing they have to talk about should be overheard by her colleagues.

When he turns back, Karen is standing in front of him, she's _right_ _there_. He freezes, just for a moment, as she puts her arms around his shoulders — god, he'd forgotten how tall she is, and he loves it, loves that her face fits into the crook of his neck. He's hugging her back, breathing her in, his heart slamming in his chest at the knowledge that he hasn't lost her, not completely.

They stay that way for a long moment before she pulls away, and he feels bereft suddenly, as though something has been missing and he only just realized it was gone.

“It's really good to see you,” she says quietly.

“Mmm. It's good to see you,” he says, his voice hoarse again. (It's almost exactly what happened the first time he came back from the dead for her.) Karen stares at him for a moment, and she's still standing so close.

“So,” she says. “What now?”

Frank blinks, coming back to reality. Karen is in danger, and it's his job to protect her. He clears his throat again.

“Now… you do your job, and I do mine. I'll try not to be too intrusive, but there are some things that are going to be weird for you since you're not used to them.”

“Like what?”

“Mainly the part where you're never alone except to use the facilities,” he says, knowing she'll hate it. Her jaw tightens in response, but she's not mad at him.

“Damn you, Elektra,” she curses under her breath. She looks up sharply. “What did she mean, before she left? ‘Remember what I told you’?”

“She made it very clear who holds my contract,” Frank says, watching the understanding dawn in her eyes.

“So I can’t fire you.” It's not a question.

“Nope. You're stuck with me, Karen. You want to tell me what this is about?”

He watches that spark ignite in her eyes, the look she always gets when talking about an investigation. Excitement and determination in equal measure. Karen has a passion for the truth, and he's always respected her for it.

“I've been investigating Wilson Fisk.”

“Yeah, he's the one wanted to clean up the Kitchen,” Frank says. He'd seen the man on the news, carping on about his Better Tomorrow initiative. Frank always thought it sounded too good to be true.

Then Fisk went to prison, so at least Frank wasn’t a complete cynic.  

“Right. There's more to him than he's letting on, and I’ve heard rumors that the FBI is going to cut a deal with him. I've been digging, and I've found a lot of very shady business deals funneled through shell corporations that he owns. He's funding all kinds of organized crime with this stuff, all from prison. I haven't quite figured out how yet.”

“You will,” Frank says. She always does. “He know you’re digging?”

Karen hesitates for a moment, but he knows she'll tell him the truth. It's the one constant in their relationship, that they're always honest with each other. Even when it hurts.

“Yes, I think he does.”

“No wonder Ms. Natchios is so insistent. I've heard stuff about Fisk, Karen. He's not someone you take lightly.”

“Trust me, Frank. I'm not going to make that mistake.” Something in her voice is different, raw, and she's avoiding his gaze.

“Karen,” he says. She still doesn't look at him. “Karen. What is it?” She finally looks at him, her eyes stark and afraid, and it's like a blow to the stomach. He's never seen Karen like this, and he doesn't like it. “Hey, hey, it's okay. Right? We'll figure it out, Karen, you're safe.”

She swallows hard, nodding.

“Come on,” she says. He doesn't realize he has his hands on her shoulders until she pulls away. “We can't talk about this here.” He nods, and waits for her to gather her stuff. The walk to her car is tense, and he won't let her get in until he's had a chance to look under the vehicle. He doesn't say what he's looking for, but Karen isn't stupid — she knows, and the fact that he's checking seems to make the whole thing a little more real for her.

“You want me to drive?” He offers, knowing she'll probably refuse. She surprises him by accepting. He takes the keys she offers, walking her around to the passenger side and bundling her in. He hits the lock button before he shuts the door.

“Where to?” He asks, once he's in the driver’s seat.

“My place,” she says, rattling off the address. He remembers it from the previous year, when he took her roses and asked for her help.

They drive in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Strange, how you can still feel so _right_ around someone, even if you haven't seen them in months. Frank tries not to think about it, tries not to imagine how it'll feel when they go their separate ways again.

It seems like only moments have passed and they're unlocking the door to her building. Up three flights of stairs, all the way at the end of the hall. She unlocks the door and starts to push it open, but Frank stops her. He motions for her to stay where she is and pushes into the apartment, looking for any sign of intrusion. He quickly clears the apartment, checking in closets and under the bed and finding no one.

When he lets Karen in and locks the door behind them, he can tell she's rattled again.

“You ready to talk about it?” He says quietly. She glances at him quickly before turning and heading into the apartment. He follows her, watching as she drops her bag on the built-in in the living room, her coat on the couch, kicks her shoes off. He knows he should be pushing her to open up but he likes seeing her like this, moving through her own space. She has a routine that she follows when she gets home, he remembers her doing the same things in the same order the last time he was here, and he likes knowing this tiny personal detail about her. Maybe too much.

She gets two beers out of the fridge, pops the caps. Hands him one. When she takes a long pull of her beer, Frank finds he likes that too.

“What you asked earlier,” she says. “About whether Fisk knows I've been digging.” She stops, and he waits her out.

“He knows,” she says.

“How?”

“Frank… I did something.”

“Karen, whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says. “You know that, right?” She nods slowly.

“Fisk had this assistant,” she begins. “James Wesley. He did all kinds of things for Fisk. Everything from scheduling his appointments to taking care of… obstacles.”

Frank can see where this is going.

“Wesley kidnapped me a couple months ago,” she whispers. “I woke up in a basement, we were sitting at a table. He was telling me how much trouble I’d been causing him, and he pulled a gun out and set it on the table between us. I don’t think he expected… he told me he was going to kill me, so I grabbed the gun. He didn’t think I’d use it.” She’s shaking, but Frank is afraid of spooking her, so he stays where he is. His hands are shaking.

“I shot him,” Karen finally says, her voice nearly inaudible. “I shot him seven times.”

“Atta girl,” Frank says. He means it. He sets his beer down and slowly crosses the room to her. She won’t meet his eyes at first. “Hey,” he says, cupping her face. She finally looks up, her eyes full of tears. Frank holds her gaze, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her temple. “You did the right thing, Karen. It was him or you.” She nods, and the tears spill down her cheeks. He gathers her in his arms, and for a few minutes they just stand there, holding on to each other tightly.

“Who else knows about this?” Frank finally breaks the silence. He’s sorry for it a moment later when Karen pulls away. She shakes her head.

“No one,” she says. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Atta girl,” he says again. “Not even your lawyer pals?”

“Matt and Foggy? No. Matt wouldn't understand, and Foggy tells him everything.”

“You leave any evidence at the scene?”

“No, I wiped everything I touched and then I threw the gun in the river on my way home. I just don't know if Wesley told Fisk what he was up to beforehand. I don't know if Fisk knows I was there.”

“I don't want to scare you, but I think you'd already be dead if Fisk knew you were there. That guy does not fuck around.” Frank stops for a moment, considering. “Maybe I do want to scare you. Karen, you gotta take this seriously, this bodyguard business. I'm gonna keep you safe but you gotta let me, ok?”

“I've still got a job to do, Frank. I'm going to finish this story whether you like it or not.”

“I'm not going to stop you. You just can't go haring off on your own. I'll help you, I won't get in your way, but let me do my job. Let me do what I'm good at.”

She finally nods, and he feels the tension in his shoulders ease. He hadn't even realized it was there.

“Are you hungry?” Karen asks. “I can order something.”

“Yeah, go ahead. Whatever you want, I'm not picky. I’m gonna do a security check of your apartment, see what the weak points are. Bill is sending my bag over, it'll be here soon. I'll bunk down on the couch, okay?”

Karen frowns, biting her lip, but she nods assent too. Frank moves through her apartment, more slowly this time, checking the windows, examining the locks on her door — he even looks down the garbage chute to make sure it's too small to be used as a point of entry. The place is no fortress, but he thinks she'll be safe enough with him there.

There's a knock on the door, and Frank just manages to stop Karen from opening it herself.

“Hey, hey,” he says, catching her with an arm around her waist. “We are gonna have to talk about some rules here in a minute, but one of them is: you don't answer the door,” he says, carefully pushing her to stand behind him. She grumbles a little, but doesn't resist. He looks through the peephole and relaxes — it's just Bill bringing his bag, as requested.

Frank lets him in and takes the duffel he's carrying.

“Ms. Page, it's nice to see you again,” Bill says, shaking her hand.

“Likewise,” Karen tells him.

“Can we talk for a minute?” Bill says, turning to Frank.

“Sure.” Frank leads Bill out into the hall, shutting the door behind them. “What's up?”

“Are you sure you should be guarding Karen Page?” Bill asks.

“You're the one who gave me this assignment, Billy boy.”

“If I'd known it was Karen, I would have sent someone else.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, let's call it ethics. You have a history with this woman. Makes you emotional, makes you vulnerable. Maybe you won't make the best decisions where she's concerned.” Frank rolls his eyes.

“Look, Bill, I am not emotional about Karen Page.” That's a lie. He's never been anything _but_ emotional about Karen Page. “I can do this job. Besides, she trusts me. I don't think she would have accepted a bodyguard if it wasn't someone she already knew.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“I'm always careful, Bill.”

“No, you're not,” Bill says, laughing suddenly, and Frank laughs with him. They shake hands and Bill heads out, just as the delivery girl arrives.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank lays out some ground rules and maybe says Too Much...

They're halfway through dinner when Karen takes a deep breath.

“Frank,” she says. He looks up at her, his dark eyes intent, and for a moment all she can do is stare back at him. It used to unsettle her, that intense black gaze, but now she thinks she doesn't know how she lived without it for so long. He looks good, healthy. His hair is longer. He almost looks like a civilian. No cuts or bruises on his face, for once.

“Where have you been?” She finally manages to ask. He looks away sharply. “Have you been in New York all this time?”

“No,” he says. “Not all of it.”

Karen stares at him for a long moment, wishing she didn't care so much, but she can't seem to help herself. Ellison had noticed, asked her why, “why do you care so much about Frank Castle?” She still couldn’t properly explain it. Something in Frank called out to her, something in his bruise-dark soul matched hers, and she could barely even admit to herself why she cared, let alone anyone else.

She jerks her gaze from his, finally; abruptly changes the subject.

“You said something about rules?”

Frank leans over the table, bracing himself on his elbows, looking up at her through his lashes.

“Yeah, I know you're not going to like this,” he says, echoing her thoughts. “Rule number one—”

She cuts him off. “No answering the door, I remember.” He looks at her like she's insane.

“That's not rule number one. Christ. Rule one is _listen_ _to_ _your_ _bodyguard_. I tell you to stop, you stop. I say get down, you hit the deck. I am talking instantly, because I'm not going to give you orders just for fun. You got that?”

For just a moment, Karen imagines Frank giving her orders _for_ _fun_ , and her breath catches in her chest. She blinks, bites her lip.

“Got it,” she manages.

“Okay. And yes, you can't answer the door. You also let me go first into unsecured rooms, you never start your car without me checking it first, and you try not to stand in front of windows.”

“This is ridiculous,” Karen bursts out. “I can't even look out the window? I'm just supposed to stop living my life?”

Frank cuts her a look. “Look, I get it. But the idea here is to make sure you get to keep living your life for a long time. And it's only for a few weeks, right? Just while you finish this story?”

“I don't know, Frank. It could take a while, depending how difficult it is to track down leads. Fisk has a way of getting out ahead of things. And what about _your_ life? You just drop everything to follow me around indefinitely? What if someone takes a shot at me, am I just supposed to let you take that bullet?” He shrugs.

“That's the job,” he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. Then, so low she almost can't hear him. “I'd take a lot more than a bullet if it meant I could keep you safe.” Karen looks up sharply at that, but Frank isn't looking at her, his long lashes veiling his gaze. She can feel herself flushing, tears pricking her eyes. Why did he stay away so long? Why was he always walking away, this man who professed to be willing to die for her? He'd already saved her life, more than once. She couldn't ask him for more.

“Frank,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. He looks up, those dark eyes vulnerable. “I can't ask you to do that for me,” she says.

“You don't have to ask. I can't let anything happen to you. Not on my watch.” His eyes are steady, that gravelly voice low and strong.

* * *

He said too much.

He knows it, knows he should be calling Bill up to send someone else to take over this assignment, but he doesn't pick up his phone.

He's walked away from Karen so many times, too many times — but never when she needed him. He's not about to change that now.

They clear the table in silence, and he helps with the dishes. He tells himself he's just pulling his weight, and that's definitely part of it, he won't be a burden while he's here — but in her tiny kitchen, it means he can stand close to her, shoulders almost touching. The casual intimacy is something he hasn't experienced since — he shakes his head, dislodging that thought. Maria and the kids are a dull ache in his chest that never goes away, but after so long the ache has become that of an old war wound — always felt, never forgotten, but not his entire existence anymore. It makes him sad, and hopeful.

It's easier with Karen, and the thought gives him pause. He knows what life is like when you love someone and they're taken from you, and Karen has a history of getting into dangerous situations. He could lose her at any moment, and she's not even his to lose.

He thinks about what she told him before, about that man kidnapping her and how close she came to dying and he wasn’t even there, she’d have been gone and he’d never have had the chance to stop it, and he barely even registers the sudden pain in his hand until Karen gasps.

“Frank!” Karen says, and he looks at her, confused and still lost in his thoughts, and follows her gaze to his hand. There's blood, he broke a wineglass, gripped it so tightly it shattered and cut his palm. “Shit, you're bleeding.”

“Sorry,” he says. She drains the sink and runs cold water over his hand, blood running down the drain. “About the glass,” he adds. “I'll get you another one.” She prods gently at the cut, looking for glass shards and finding none.

“The glass doesn't matter, Frank. Come on, I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

“I'm fine,” he says, but she drags him into the bathroom and he lets her, he doesn’t resist when she pushes him down to sit on the toilet. She reaches into a cabinet and pulls out the promised first aid kit, opening it up to balance on the edge of the sink. He holds still while she disinfects the cut, holding his hand out over the sink and pouring hydrogen peroxide over it — it stings a little, but he's no stranger to pain and he doesn't even flinch.

Without warning, Karen lowers herself until she's sitting on his lap, and Frank stops breathing. She doesn't stop what she's doing, still carefully applying ointment to the cut, seemingly oblivious to his reaction to her closeness. She wobbles a little and he braces her back with his free hand, sees the corner of her mouth tip up in a tiny smile at the contact.

He's in way over his head.

“So what was that about, huh?” She asks, and it takes him a moment to realize she means the broken glass.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“I already told you the glass doesn't matter, Frank.”

“I'm not talking about the glass,” he says, and she glances down at him, eyes asking a question. “I'm sorry I wasn't there. When Wesley abducted you. I'm sorry you had to go through that alone.”

“You couldn't know it was going to happen,” she says, turning back to carefully spread a bandage over the cut on his palm. “He grabbed me right off my doorstep. It all happened so fast, no one even knew I was gone.”

“I should have been there,” he says, shaking his head stubbornly.

“You were gone for a long time,” she says softly. “I’d started to wonder if… if you were…” She doesn’t say the word, but he knows what she means. _Dead_. She hasn’t let go of his hand, still gently smoothing the bandage down even though it’s as well-adhered as it’s going to get.

“I might as well have been,” Frank says. “It took me a long time to find my way back to the land of the living.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“Me too,” he says, and is surprised to find that it’s true.


	3. Chapter 3

Karen lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening.

She can't hear anything. Frank apparently sleeps as quietly as he does everything else, because she hasn't heard a single snore. She'd always figured he'd snore like a freight train with that broken nose of his. He must be sound asleep — it's well past one in the morning.

Karen, on the other hand, can't get her brain to shut off. She can't stop thinking about the evening, how normal it had felt to sit and watch tv with Frank after dinner, how he'd looked when he said he would take a bullet for her. She wondered what he'd been thinking when he broke that glass. He'd looked just as shattered as the pieces of it in his hand.

Karen tries to think about something else, her story, anything. She's worried Fisk will kill all her leads — literally. She's a little worried, too, that Frank's intimidating presence will scare off any informants who survive Fisk’s hitmen.

There was a time when Karen was afraid of Frank, but it seems so long ago. She trusts him completely now — okay, maybe she doesn't trust him not to kill gangsters, but with her life? She trusted him with that long before he said he'd give his own for hers.

And, damn it, she's thinking about him again.

She sits up abruptly, swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Pauses for a moment — she doesn't want to wake Frank. But she figures if she's not going to get any sleep, she may as well get some work done, and she needs her laptop for that, which is out in the kitchen. And if she's going to the kitchen anyway she might as well get a glass of wine. It might even help her sleep.

She gets up, heads for the door. At the last second she grabs a silky short robe off the hook, throwing it on over her camisole and shorts.

She pads quietly down the hall in the dark, fingers trailing the wall for guidance, trying not to make noise. The apartment is so quiet it's almost spooky. She expected Frank to be more… obviously there. When they're in a room together she always knows exactly where he is, what he's doing. She thought it was because he was loud and commanding, in-your-face _there_ , always obtrusive and impossible to miss. But she's starting to realize he's never been loud except when he's yelling at her. Which he hasn't done in a long, long time. She almost misses it.

She reaches the end of the hall, cracks open the door as slowly and quietly as she's able. There's a little light in the kitchen from the oven clock, enough so she won't run into anything. She slips through the door, leaves it open, peers into the living room (she lives in an open plan apartment but she's never been able to think of the different areas as anything other than rooms). It's pitch black, she can't even see shapes, let alone tell whether Frank is sleeping. She quietly tiptoes across the kitchen.

She grabs a wineglass out of the rack, gently opens the fridge to pour some wine… Okay, a lot of wine. She doesn't want to have to come back for a second glass and risk disturbing her houseguest a second time.

Karen sets the full glass on the counter and turns back to the fridge, thinking maybe she wants a snack to go with the wine.

“I never pegged you for a midnight snacker,” Frank says.

“Jesus! You scared the shit out of me,” Karen says, clutching her heart. It's beating fast.

Frank is standing on the other side of the island, wearing sweatpants and an undershirt. The light from the fridge illuminates him, lingering on the high points of his face, his collarbone where it peaks out of the v-neck of his shirt, the curve of his bicep.

“Trouble sleeping?” He says. It's not quite a question. Karen shrugs.

“I've got a lot to think about,” she says. Her article on Fisk counted as plenty to keep her up at night, and now she had Frank's reappearance added to the mix. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah, I was awake anyway.”

She takes a closer look at his face. He looks exhausted.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a nightmare. I'm used to ‘em.”

Karen knows what that's like. She's had her share of nightmares for years now, and the incident with Wesley has only added to them.

“I was just going to do some work,” she says, gesturing at her laptop. Frank nods. “Do you want some wine?”

“Mmm. Sure. Thanks.” She grabs another wineglass, fills it up to match her own too-full glass.

“Try not to break this one,” she quips as she hands it over. Their hands brush in the transfer.

“No promises,” he smirks, taking a sip.

“I was going to go work in bed,” Karen says. “But… I could stay out here. We can watch some tv.” She holds her breath, doesn't know why she's so anxious for his decision. Maybe it's just that she's never had this much access to Frank Castle before. There's always been something else going on — him strapped to a hospital bed, mired in a legal battle, bullets flying overhead, a terrorist holding her hostage.

He's quiet for a moment. Looks up. Nods. “Okay.”

She releases that breath with a small smile. “Okay.”

Karen picks up her laptop and her glass of wine and heads to the living room. She sits on one side of the couch, deliberately closer to the center than the end. Sets her glass on the coffee table, opens her laptop. Frank sits down next to her, close enough to touch but not quite doing so. He stretches out his legs, throws one arm along the back of the couch. If she leans back, she could rest her head on his forearm. She stays upright.

Frank turns on the television, starts flipping through channels.

“Any requests?”

“Doesn't matter to me,” she tells him. He finds a channel showing a late night replay of a recent baseball game. She's never cared about sports, but baseball is at least easy to tune out. She pulls up her notes on Fisk, starts digging in to her research.

It's… comfortable. Working like this, not talking, just being in the same space. They stay like that for hours.

* * *

Frank wakes up slowly, warm and heavy with sleep, a little disoriented. He doesn't remember bringing anyone home last night.

He cracks an eye open, looks around. Blonde hair. Vaguely familiar apartment. Dim sunlight filters in from the kitchen.

Then he remembers. Karen working late into the night by his side. He remembers when she fell asleep, her head slowly falling to rest on his shoulder. He'd moved to catch her, intending to pick her up and carry her to her own bed, but she'd wrapped her arms around him and he hadn't been able to bring himself to stop her. He doesn't remember when he fell asleep, definitely hadn't intended to spend the entire night like this.

But he doesn't regret it. He hasn't felt this alive in years.

He's laying on his back on the couch, Karen's long-limbed body draped over his. Her head is on his chest, one arm wrapped around his torso, the other trailing over the side of the couch, his hand wrapped loosely around her bicep.

There's an ache in his chest at how sweet she feels against him. Her heart beats slow and strong against his stomach.

“Mmmmm,” she says, stretching sleepily. He knows the exact moment she comes fully awake because she goes completely still.

“Hey,” he says, gently brushing her hair behind her ear. She looks up at him. Blushes.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—” she starts to push away.

“It's okay,” he says, and she freezes again.

“O-Okay,” she says, relaxing a little. She gets up anyway, and he sighs a little in disappointment.

“What time is it? Don't you have to work?”

“I make my own hours, for the most part,” she says, picking up her robe. He doesn't remember her taking it off last night. It's blue and satiny, trimmed in white lace. She looks like an angel standing over him, and he swallows hard. “I do need to go in to the office today though. I have a meeting this afternoon. A source is coming in for an interview.”

He nods and sits up. She's still standing so close that their feet almost touch.

“Do you want to shower first?” She asks.

“Okay,” he says. She heads for the kitchen, and he grabs his bag and locks himself in the bathroom. Showers quickly, the water as cold as he can stand it.

When he leaves the bathroom, fully dressed in jeans and a black Henley, the entire apartment smells like coffee. The bedroom door is shut, and he can hear Karen moving around within.

“Shower’s free,” he calls, and heads to the kitchen.

The bedroom door opens, and Karen calls back “I'll just be a minute,” before closing the bathroom door behind her. He's prepared to wait.

The coffee is good and strong, and he drinks two cups before she finally emerges. She’s wearing what he thinks of as the Karen Page uniform: pencil skirt, blouse, and heels. She smiles to see him sipping his coffee.

“No suit today?” She asks, noticing his choice in clothing.

“Figured this would be less intimidating to your coworkers,” he says. She eyes his shoulder holster with a raised brow. “I've got a jacket, don't worry. Do you have a cover story in mind, or are we gonna tell everyone I'm your bodyguard?”

“I'm going to tell Ellison the truth, but everyone else can mind their own business. If they push, I'll just tell them you're an informant working with me on a story.”

Karen moves around the kitchen, pouring coffee into a travel cup, shoving her laptop into her bag.

“Hey, uh,” Frank says. “You want to talk about last night?”

“What's there to talk about?” She says briskly. “We fell asleep, it's no big deal.” She won't look at him, but he's not going to let her brush this off. 

“Karen,” he says, gently taking her hand as she brushes by. She stops, but she still isn't looking at him, her eyes downcast and her face in profile. He sighs. He's never been any good at this stuff. The problem isn't _having_ feelings, or even acknowledging them to himself — it's expressing them to the people around him.

“Karen… I know I've got a—a funny way of showing it, you know, sometimes, but,” he pauses, and she finally looks at him, those blue eyes steady. “You're important to me,” he says. It hurts his throat to admit it out loud, his heart is pounding like he's just run a mile. It had been easier to tell her he'd die for her, which probably just goes to show how fucked up he is. What's left of his existence is so tied up in Karen Page he doesn't know how he'll go on without her once his contract is fulfilled. It hasn't even been twenty four hours since they found each other again and he's already in so deep and he's scared out of his mind by it.

He doesn't know how to tell her that, so this is what he's got. _You're_ _important_ _to_ _me_. It sounds so… so inadequate. So trite and cliche.

But still true.


	4. Chapter 4

Frank looks like he's going to explode or pass out or maybe even kiss her, and Karen's heart beats faster. She's never seen him look so scared, not when he was waiting for two killers in a diner, not when he admitted his fear of who Micro might be, not when he was yelling at her by the waterfront that he had to keep her safe.

Not even when he was walking her through disarming the bomb pressed to her back without alerting the bomber to what they were up to.

 _You're_ _important_ _to_ _me_.

She'd had an inkling that he felt more than obligation towards her, that his feelings weren't just a debt to someone who had helped him. It seems like she's never known a time when Frank wasn't important to her, but he was so deep in his war when they met she thinks it must have surprised him to come to the same realization.

Seeing him struggle with it so much is heartbreaking, but she thinks she understands. Nearly everyone Frank Castle has ever loved has been taken from him, one way or another. His wife, his children, his unit, a trusted commanding officer. And now here she is, knee-deep in danger _again_ , investigating a man so powerful that nothing has ever stuck to him for long, and — she's important to him and the knowledge is a throbbing warmth in her chest.

He's still looking up at her, eyes wide and focused on her, and without pausing to think it through she leans down and kisses him.

His lips are soft and for a moment he's frozen and she just has time to think _oh_ , _fuck_ , _I've_ _made_ _a_ _mistake_ , but then he's kissing her back. His hands are in her hair and he's standing up without breaking the kiss, pushing her back against the counter. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and she breathes him in like oxygen. He slides a hand around her rib cage, pressing her closer, and she tugs his shirt from his waistband to get to the skin underneath. He's furnace-hot, and she can feel scars ridging his otherwise-soft skin.

He stops the kiss and a small sound of protest escapes her, startling a surprised huff of laughter from him that she feels all the way to her bones. He presses his lips to her cheek, her temple, the sensitive spot below her ear, and she returns the favor, kissing his ear, his throat, his collarbone.

He likes that last spot, practically purring against her, and she smiles against his skin. He rests his forehead against hers, and they just stand there for a moment, wrapped up in each other and catching their breath.

“I suppose you don't want to talk about that, either,” he murmurs into her hair, and she snorts.

“We should,” she says. “But I really do have to get to work.”

Her phone rings, as if it had been waiting for them to finish before interrupting. She sends up a silent thanks to anyone who might be listening that it didn't ring five minutes ago.

It takes them a moment to extricate themselves from one another, and it's all Karen can do to keep from hauling Frank back into her arms and begging him to kiss her again. He tucks her hair behind her ear and pulls away (but not far) and she grabs her phone with one hand, the other lingering on Frank's waist.

“Karen Page,” she says into the phone.

“Karen, where the hell are you?” It's Ellison, and he sounds angry and maybe a little scared.

“Late start today, I'm still at home,” Karen says, and she hears Ellison breathe a sigh of relief.

“Haven't you seen the news?” He asks. Karen frowns, looks up at Frank. She moves into the living room and turns on the television, flipping quickly to a local news channel.

“Jesus, Ellison,” she says. WILSON FISK OUT OF PRISON, IN FBI PENTHOUSE, the headline reads. “I'll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Good. _Be_ _careful_.”

Karen hangs up.

“Come on,” she says to Frank. He's glaring at the news, a faint look of disgust on his face. “You okay?”

He looks up. “I met him,” he says. “In prison. He helped me get information on the Blacksmith and then got me out.” He shakes his head, shrugs into a blazer. It's a good look on him. She's always thought he looked a little out of place in a suit. Oh, he always looked good in one. But this fit him a little more naturally, jeans and boots and casual shirt dressed up with a sport coat. It seems closer to his own style.

“Wait, _that's_ how you escaped from prison? Wilson Fisk?” Frank grimaces like it's not something he's proud of.

“Yeah. He's a piece of work,” Frank adds. “People said I was ruthless. Wilson Fisk has no conscience.”

It takes much longer than twenty minutes for them to get to the _Bulletin_ office. Traffic is a nightmare; Karen thinks they could have walked there faster. She drives, and Frank is tense beside her in the passenger seat. She doesn't think Fisk will come after her himself — like Frank said, she'd probably already be dead if he knew she'd killed Wesley — and definitely not in broad daylight on a busy New York street, but she can't shake the anxiety.

When they finally arrive, Ellison is waiting in her office. He starts to say something, but stops when he catches sight of Frank, his eyes going wide.

“Karen, what the hell,” he says.

“Ellison, this is my bodyguard, _Pete_ _Castiglione_ ,” she says, her voice hard. “Elektra’s idea, courtesy of that story I'm working on. You know the one.”

“But that’s—”

She cuts him off. “Pete, like I said. Look, Elektra paid his contract so I can't fire him. And after the stuff I've seen Fisk do, I'm not sure I'd want to, even if he hadn't just been released from prison. He's staying.”

Ellison gives Frank a hard look. Frank, for his part, has watched all of this without comment, his face impassive. He finally speaks, looking Ellison directly in the eye.

“I'm here for one reason, and it's to keep Karen safe. As long as you don't get in the way of that, we aren't going to have any problems.” His voice is low and even, but Karen recognizes the statement for what it is: a threat. If Ellison decides to cause trouble, it's not going to go well for anyone.

Ellison stares back at Frank for a long moment. Whatever he sees in Frank's face must satisfy him, because he nods once, sharply. “I'm going to hold you to that,” he says. “But if anything happens to her, I will call the cops on you myself. I will bring in the National Guard if that's what it takes.”

Frank cracks a smile at that. “Won't be necessary,” he says. Karen doesn't think the National Guard could take him, anyway.

“Are you two done?” She says. Frank raises his eyebrows at Ellison, letting him decide.

“Yeah, we're done,” Ellison says on a sigh. “You better not make me regret this.” She can't tell if that last was directed at her or Frank. Possibly both.

She's been shuffling through her mail while they work this out, opening envelopes and giving the contents a cursory scan. Hate mail, hate mail, junk mail, fan mail. Somehow the fan mail and hate mail are equally creepy. She tosses it all aside, picks up the last envelope.

It's a padded manila one, not very heavy. She rips open the end, slides the contents out onto her desk. Stares at it for a long moment.

“Fuck,” she says. She can see Frank go on high alert out of the corner of her eye, sees Ellison straighten up to take a look.

It's… she's pretty sure it's a tongue. A human one, in a clear plastic bag. She presses a hand to her mouth in horror, muffling a sob. Frank is around the desk in a flash, wrapping his arms around her. He drags her over to the other side of the room, sits her down on the couch, crouches down so he can see her face.

“Is that what I think it is?” She whispers. He nods grimly, lips pressed together in a hard line. He doesn't look away, meeting her gaze head on. She can practically hear his teeth grinding, but his hands are gentle, one cupping her neck, the other resting on her knee. He feels warm and solid, and she leans into him a little.

Ellison hasn't moved, still staring at the desk, at the horror lying on top of it.

“I think we have to call the FBI,” he says. “Isn't mailing body parts their problem?”

“No,” Frank says. “Fisk probably has half of them on his bankroll by now. Call Mahoney.”

Karen looks up. “Frank,” she says.

“I know. I can't be here when he gets here,” he practically growls.

“I'll be surrounded by cops, right?” Karen says, trying to reassure him. “So I'll be safe enough with them here. You can… you can just wait until we call them and then go.”

Frank looks like he wants to break something, but he nods, his jaw tight.


	5. Chapter 5

Frank is pissed, but worse than that, he's scared. If Fisk is already mailing body parts to Karen, things could escalate rapidly.

He waits almost ten minutes after Ellison calls Mahoney before heading out. He's probably cutting it close, but Ellison gave him a _Bulletin_ ball cap to wear and everyone thinks the Punisher is dead, so he's not that concerned about being recognized. He squeezes Karen's hand once, holding her gaze for a long moment, and slips out of her office into the bustling newsroom outside.

He's considered staying close by; he figures the NYPD will only send a handful of uniforms down for the envelope and its contents, which will leave Karen somewhat exposed. But he's decided his time could be better spent elsewhere.

He pulls a cheap old phone out of his pocket on his way out of the building. There are only a few numbers programmed into it, and he hits the speed dial for the first.

“Pete?”

“Micro. I need a favor. Can we meet?”

“Jesus, man, I haven't heard from you in months. Are you okay? I assume you've seen the news?” Trust David to still be worrying about him. He's always been a pain in the ass, but he's a good dude.

“I've seen it. I'm fine. This favor is related though.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Come on, man. Can we meet or not?”

“Yeah, yeah of course we can. I'll meet you at the old place in… about thirty minutes?”

“Yeah. I'll see you then. And thanks, I appreciate this.”

Thirty minutes later, Frank is pacing around the old bunker. He knows Lieberman said ‘about’ thirty minutes, but Frank is keyed up and has never been patient anyway.

Ten minutes later he hears the lock scraping on the door, and he reaches for his gun. Just in case.

It's just David, carrying a laptop case in one hand and a coffee in the other. Frank glares.

“You stopped for fucking coffee?” He growls.

“Relax, man, Sarah sent it. It's for you.”

He hands it over and Frank catches the smell of good dark roast. It soothes his nerves a bit, and he takes a big sip.

“Damn. She still makes great coffee. Thank her for me, please.” It's the closest he'll get to apologizing, and David knows it.

“So what's this all about, Frank?” He asks, setting up his laptop on one of the old tables.

“You asked if I'd seen the news about Fisk.”

“Yeah, whole city is in an uproar. Personally, I'm surprised it took him this long to get out.”

“No kidding. Look, he's targeting Karen. Sent her a body part in the mail today.”

Lieberman takes a moment to control his gag reflex, and Frank can't help but roll his eyes a little. The number of times he'd returned to this bunker covered in blood and god knows what else, you'd think David would have gotten over his squeamishness.

“It was someone's tongue. NYPD is there now. I don't trust them to be fast enough though.”

“What do you want me to do?” David asks, under control once more.

“Can you check the morgues? See if any bodies have shown up mutilated in the last couple days? Specifically ones missing their tongues.”

“Ugh. Yeah, I can do that,” David says, fingers already flying over the keyboard.

“I have a hunch who it is. Karen said she was supposed to have an interview this afternoon with a source. Someone with information on Fisk. I'm guessing they're never gonna show.” Frank’s fingers are twitching, something he hasn't done in months.

“You have a name?”

“No. But once the NYPD processes the evidence, we'll have DNA. You can search the database faster than they can, right?”

David scoffs. “Of course I can.”

For a while, the only sound in the bunker is the clicking of the keys and the low whir of the laptop’s CPU. It's almost comfortable, being back here, listening to David work.

“How do you know all this so fast?” David breaks the silence.

“I was there when she opened the package.”

“What, with Karen?” Lieberman sounds incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“How'd that happen?”

Frank takes a minute to think. He's not sure where to start.

“Been working for Bill at his company. Anvil. Decent amount of travel, pay’s good, keeps me busy doing stuff I'm good at. Anyway, sometimes I take bodyguard assignments. I hate them, it's always watching some rich asshole who probably deserves any bad shit that happens to him, so when Bill came to me with this one I almost said no. But then I figured, what the hell, I don't have anything better to do. He said this woman wanted a bodyguard for her reporter friend. Imagine my surprise when it turns out the reporter is Karen.” He pauses for a moment, remembering — was it only twenty four hours ago?

“Anyway I guess Karen's friend is rich, cause she's paying my contract. She's heard things about Fisk and knew Karen was working on a story about him and took matters into her own hands. Thank fucking god for that.”

“So what, just like that you're back in Karen Page’s life?” David asks. Frank shrugs.

“Seems that way.”

“What are you going to do if I find this body?”

“If they're Karen's source, they gotta have documents, right? Physical, digital, something. They gotta have some kind of proof.”

“So, what, you're just going to break into their apartment and hope they left something lying around, conveniently labeled ‘evidence against Fisk?’” David's always been a sarcastic bastard. Frank rolls his eyes.

“You really think I'm an idiot, don't you?” He says. David has the grace to look a little guilty. “You find the body, and yeah, I go check out their place. If I'm lucky, I'll at least find a laptop or some other electronic toy for you to play with. And while I'm doing that, you get to dig up every bit of information you can on them.”

“This plan… has some merits,” David concedes.

“Not just a blunt instrument,” Frank says, tapping his temple.

The laptop chimes, and David turns back to it and taps a few commands. “Okay, here we go… body came in to the morgue late last night. Missing… ugh, _several_ body parts, including the tongue.”

“They got a name yet?” Frank asks, moving to stand behind David.

“Uh… no,” he says. “But they have a photo, so I should be able to find the name, easy enough.”

Five minutes later and David has a name and an address. It's an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, which Frank thinks is unusually convenient. He thought he'd have to drive halfway across the city.

“I'll be back in an hour, hour and a half, tops,” Frank says. David waves him off.

“Don't get caught!” he says.

In the deceased's apartment, one Jeremiah Smith, Frank finds a goddamn mess. The place has been ransacked, couch cushions torn apart, drawers emptied onto the floor. Frank has never understood the cushion thing — when has anyone ever hidden anything in their couch on purpose? The only things you'd expect to find there are lint, the remote, and maybe a few nickels and pennies.

He stands in the middle of the main room, right index finger tapping against his thigh, and lets his eyes wander over the debris. He doesn't touch anything — he wore gloves to open the door, and he still has them on, but he doesn't want to disturb anything for the cops if he can help it.

He tries to put himself in Jeremiah's shoes — scared, trying to do the right thing. He discounts the idea that the man would have had any physical documents. Too hard to hide, too easy to damage. That leaves digital. A laptop or desktop computer would be too obvious. Smith might have had files on one, but that's the first place anyone would look — and sure enough, Frank can't find a computer anywhere in the apartment, which means Fisk already has it.

He hopes Smith wasn't a complete idiot. He had to have kept a backup. Separate from the computer, somewhere easy to access at a moment’s notice. That means a flash drive. Small, easy to hide. He supposes it could be on a disk, but Smith had been relatively young, so the flash drive is more likely.

He finds it taped to the bottom of the spice drawer in the kitchen. Whoever ransacked the place didn't pull all of the drawers out and dump them — the spice drawer and a few others went unscathed. Frank tucks the drive into his pocket.

“I found it,” he says, back in the old bunker.

“I hate when you're right,” David says.

“You find anything helpful?”

“Not that I know of,” David sighs. “Got the kid’s entire life history here. No red flags. Seems like he was a good kid, first job out of college was just at the wrong company.”

“Well, maybe this will help,” Frank tosses the flash drive to David. “Can you copy that? I gotta give it to Karen, but we should have a backup. All the other electronics in the place were gone, no computer, no tablet, no phone.”

“Makes sense, if they were looking for the evidence they'd have taken all that stuff. Even if they can't get into any of it, this way they keep it out of the cops’ hands.” He plugs the flash drive into his laptop, fiddles around. “It's password protected. This could take a bit.”

Frank nods. He sprawls out on the couch, prepared to wait. With David, ‘a bit’ can mean twenty minutes or two hours, it's impossible to tell.


	6. Chapter 6

Karen is doing her best to keep it together for the cops.

Ellison is furious. It's the first time in the Bulletin’s history that staff has been sent a body part.

“I don't know what's worse,” Mahoney says. “Thinking someone's been murdered and their corpse mutilated, or the possibility that this was done to them while they were still alive.”

“Jesus, Brett,” Karen says. “Isn't this bad enough without thinking about that?”

“I'm sorry, Karen,” he says. Her office is full of NYPD, so she and the detective are out in the newsroom. “Any idea who could have sent this to you?”

Karen sighs. Her first thought was that this was Fisk's handiwork, but the truth is she's pissed off a lot of bad people in her time at the _Bulletin_. “I'll write you a list,” she says, feeling exhausted. Brett's brows shoot up, but he doesn't comment. He reads her articles, he knows what she does.

She wishes Frank was here. Wonders what he's doing. She probably won't like it, whatever it is.

The cops take forever to process the scene. They take photographs of the… (her mind stutters over accurate descriptions) envelope and desk. They take statements from Karen and Ellison and even the mailroom kid. They take fingerprints from everyone who touched the envelope, so now Karen's fingertips look as dirty as they've always felt to her.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Frank after the third hour has come and gone.

_Stole_ _your_ _car_ , _for_ _old_ _time’s_ _sake ;)_ _call_ _me_ _when_ _they_ _leave_ _and_ _I'll_ _pick_ _you_ _up_

A surprised snort of laughter catches in Karen's throat. Frank Castle uses _emojis_. She feels a little bit better, after that.

Finally, as the sky outside is beginning to go dark, the cops bag everything up, leaving fingerprint dust in their wake.

“Do you have someone you can call?” Brett asks her. She smiles a little. Nods. “Good. Be careful, Karen. You've made a lot of enemies. Don't give them a chance, okay?”

“I won't. Thanks, Brett.”

Mahoney gives her shoulder a squeeze, nods, and disappears out the door.

She and Ellison don't speak for five minutes after he leaves. Ellison finally gets up and shuts the door.

“Call the Pun—” he stops himself. “Call your bodyguard friend. I'll walk you out when he gets here, and I want you to go straight home. And don't come in for a couple days, okay? Just work from home.”

Karen hates this, hates being treated like something fragile, hates that Ellison is probably right to keep her out of the office for a while. Hates Fisk and all of the other criminals she's investigated for putting her in this position.

“I can't believe I'm condoning you running around with that guy as your shadow,” Ellison adds, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You know he's not what they say about him,” Karen argues. They've had this conversation before. “You know he's not a psycho murderer.”

“Do I?” Ellison sighs, his heart not in the argument. They're just running lines at this point. “I guess I do. I saw how he is with you. Never would have guessed.”

Karen wants desperately to ask how Frank is with her, she doesn't know what Ellison means and is terrified to hope, but she doesn't ask. Ellison sighs again.

“As long as he's looking out for you… Go on, call— call Pete.”

She calls him, and he picks up immediately.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she says. There's a long pause; he doesn't believe her. She supposes she wouldn't believe her either. “Ellison is going to walk me out. Where will we meet you?”

“I'm in the parking garage, I'll pull around to the stairs and wait for you there.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

She grabs her stuff, not wanting to linger. Frank is liable to cause a scene if she takes too long.

“Ready?” Ellison asks, and they head out. They take the stairs quickly, and when she comes out into the garage she's reminded of another time, of Frank waiting for her in her own car, funk playing on the radio.

It's a different car now — the old one was totaled, by Frank, but he'd saved her life in the process so she didn't hold it against him — but she can hear the Commodores’ Brick House playing on the radio. He looks a lot less suspicious this time, too, his face unmarked by bruises.

She slides into the car, trying to subtly look him over more closely, looking at his knuckles to see if he's been fighting. His hands are clean, free of bruises — which only rules out hand-to-hand combat. With Frank, it's a distinction that must be made.

Ellison leans down to look in the open window.

“Try to stay out of trouble,” he says. Frank scoffs slightly, a smile tugging his lips. Karen cuts him a look.

“We will,” she tells Ellison. He taps the roof of the car and they pull away.

“So,” Karen says as they begin a meandering route back to her place. “What did you do all afternoon?”

He looks a lot more relaxed than when he'd left her in her office. He flicks a glance at her before refocusing on the road.

“Called an old friend, got him started digging for leads,” he says. “I've got good news and bad news.”

“Bad first,” she says, wondering if anyone ever wants the good news first.

“The bad news is… your source is dead,” Frank says. Karen sucks in a breath, tears pricking her eyes. He'd been just a kid, less than a year out of college.

“How—” she doesn't know how to finish the question.

“Not pretty,” Frank says. “I'll spare you the grisly details. Body's in the morgue. Cops’ll catch up pretty quickly, I'm guessing.”

“And the good news?” Karen asks.

“I got you a present,” Frank says, handing her a flash drive.

“Where did you get this?” He cuts her a look.

“Where do you think? Went to the kid's apartment. Whole thing had been ransacked, computer gone. He wasn't an idiot though, he kept a backup. Lucky for us.”

“How did you know where to go? I never told you his name…” Karen trails off, putting it together. “You think it was his? The… the package I got. You think that was my source’s,” she says, avoiding the word ‘tongue’ (she may never use that word again).

Frank flicks another glance in her direction. “Yeah,” he says, his voice flat. “It's a hell of a message.” She can always trust him not to sugar coat anything. She slouches down in her seat, rubbing a hand over her face.

“Fuck,” she says, almost conversationally. Thinks for a moment. “So, what, you just searched the morgue for bodies that had been mutilated?”

“Pretty much.Well, not me. My friend. He searched the database.”

“This old friend, was it Micro?” Karen asks.

“Yeah. David Lieberman. Never thought I'd be friends with a spook.” He pauses, glances at her again. “I think he wants to meet you.”

Karen blinks. “Why would he want that?”

“This, uh, this isn't the first time he's helped me keep you safe,” Frank says, like he's confessing something. She knows instantly what he means.

“I always wondered how you found Lewis Wilson so quickly,” she says lightly. “I guess I just figured all you vets have some kind of secret underground communications network or something.”

He laughs, and Karen marvels a little at the sound. She's heard him laugh before, of course, but she likes being the cause of it. She wishes, just for a moment, that none of this stuff with Fisk was happening, that they could just be two… two whatever-they-are, she still doesn't know, Frank picking her up from work and taking her for a drive, maybe going to dinner and then out for coffee after.

“What?” He says, and she realizes she's been staring at him, thinking about dating him, _dating_ _Frank_ _Castle_ , and she blushes a little and straightens up in her seat again.

“Nothing,” she says, looking out at the city around them, trying to get her bearings. “Where are we going?”

“Thought we'd go to dinner,” he says. “There's a place in Harlem I think you'll like. Okay?”

“Okay,” she smiles. Sometimes she thinks Frank can read her mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! I’ve have several more written but I’m still figuring stuff out so. Idk when they’ll be up exactly. I’ve gotten a bit distracted with a one shot idea that just grabbed me and wouldn’t let go, so that’s delaying this fic. Oops. Anyway, enjoy!

Frank is trying not to freak out.

Life with Karen is so damn _comfortable_. Natural. He's been sleeping on her couch for over a week now; they have a morning routine, an evening routine. It all just fell into place, easy as breathing, and he doesn't know — what happens, when she finishes her investigation? When her article is out there, and Fisk is (presumably) behind bars (or dead, if Frank has any say in the matter), and Elektra Natchios (who he's found out is some kind of diplomat’s heiress or something, who knew) ends his contract, and he doesn't get to spend every waking moment with this woman anymore.

He thinks he might die from it, or, worse, live — and have to learn to live without her.

They never did talk about that first night, or the morning after, or that one too-brief kiss that has kept him up at night, more than once. She hasn't brought it up, and it's killing him but he doesn't know how to broach the subject.

But they still sit and watch tv some nights, and she always sits close but not quite touching. They hardly ever touch, and sometimes he thinks he'll go mad with it, with the desire to brush her hair behind her ear or kiss her whenever he wants or… or.

She smiles at him over their morning coffee, and most of the showers he takes are cold, thinking about those smiles.

He is in way too deep.

They spend two days going through the flash drive, cataloguing every piece of evidence, trying to fit the puzzle pieces into a complete picture. What they end up with is concerning. The info Karen has already come up with and the info on the flash drive fit together, but don't line up perfectly.

“I think this is even worse than I originally thought,” she says. “It's way bigger.”

***

He loves going to work with her.

Between Frank and Ellison, they manage to keep her out of the office for three days. She does okay the first day, mainly because she has that flash drive to go through, but by the morning of the third she's tense and antsy and quite honestly driving Frank a little nuts. She reminds him of how David used to get sometimes, stuck in that bunker, only David usually lasted more than three days. That afternoon she gives Frank an ultimatum: “You can come with me to work tomorrow, or I sneak out of here and possibly get murdered by Fisk. You pick.”

He goes with her to work. As if he'd choose anything else.

He takes a book with him, usually some classic or other that Curt has lent him, and he reads when she's writing or preoccupied. If she's on a call with a source, he shamelessly eavesdrops. They argue about her conclusions, but it's an easy kind of arguing. Sometimes he argues his side long after she's already convinced him of hers, just so he can watch her reason with him, her voice getting a bit louder and her eyes snapping with blue fire.

He's careful not to get too comfortable, especially outside of her apartment. He still has a job to do, and even if he wasn't being paid he'd still be keeping her safe. Or as safe as anyone could ever keep Karen. He still can't believe she's even allowing him to stick around.

To be honest, he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since she got that package. And then, almost three weeks after, it does.

He wakes up in the middle of the night in pitch darkness. For a long moment, he lies very still, listening.

The lock is scraping. The fire escape is creaking. That means at least two assailants, but probably more. He guesses two per entrance. It's what he'd do.

First things first: he gets up, shrugs into his shoulder holster, the worn leather smooth against his bare skin. Checks his gun, thumbs the safety off, and reholsters it. Grabs his knife and clips it to the waistband of his sweatpants. Frank wishes he had time to put his boots on, but he has to get to Karen.

He pads silently across the apartment, keeping low. Eases through the hall door and closes it silently behind him. Within moments, he's in Karen's moonlit bedroom, wishing he didn't have to do what he's about to do, which is scare the hell out of her.

He leans over her and presses his hand to her mouth, careful not to touch her anywhere else. He knows this is intrusive, but he's got to get her somewhere safe and he can't let her scream.

Her eyes fly open and he grabs her wrist before she manages to punch him. “Karen, shh, it's me,” he says, and she relaxes somewhat. At least, she stops trying to fight him. “I'm sorry about this, but we have company.” He lets go of her mouth, pulls her out of bed.

“Who is it, what's going on?” She whispers.

“Two targets, one at the front door, one coming up the fire escape,” he says. They're standing close together, his body curling around hers protectively while he whispers in her ear. He feels her shiver. “Hey, it's gonna be okay. I don't know exactly how many people we're talking about yet, so I need you to do as I say. Where's your gun?”

She grabs it off the bedside table and he can't help but smile. He waits for her to thumb off the safety and chamber a round, then he grabs her free hand and pulls her along behind him.

“In here,” he says, pushing her into the bathroom. She has a claw foot tub in there, big and heavy. “Get in the tub, Karen. You don't come out for any reason, you hear? I'll come get you when I'm done. You don't hear my voice, you plug anyone who comes through that door, okay?”

“Frank—” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“Rule number one,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead and disappearing through the door. He closes it behind him, and closes the bedroom door, too. No reason to advertise where Karen is. He moves silently to the kitchen door, listens for a moment before cracking it open. Listens again.

The scraping at the front door has stopped. He can't hear anything from that direction at the moment. They could be in the apartment already, but he thinks they're probably waiting until the fire escape group is ready. He can hear them fiddling around, trying to unlock the window.

The curtains are closed, so he decides to take advantage of the delay and get his boots on. He closes the hall door silently behind him, stays low as he hurries across the room. Moments later he's lacing up his boots, and he feels better for it. No time for anything else, he hears the lock click on the window and the front door clicking open.

Silently cursing the open plan of Karen's apartment, Frank quickly moves over to stand beside the window, pulling out his knife. He's going to have to be fast, and careful, since they're likely wearing body armor and he's not and there's precious little goddamn cover in this place.

The window slides open slowly, cold air gusting in and making the curtains billow. The end of a pistol pokes through first, followed by a booted foot. Frank bides his time, lets the first man get all the way into the apartment, keeps waiting, trusting the darkness and fluttering curtains to hide him. As he suspected, another gun pokes through the window, another assassin slips into the room.

He waits another beat to see if anyone else is on the fire escape. Then he gets to work.


	8. Chapter 8

Karen huddles on her side in the bathtub, feeling useless and angry and scared, all at once. It's too dark to see anything, and only her bathroom to see even if it wasn't pitch dark, so she closes her eyes and listens as hard as she can.

She can't hear anything, and that freaks her out more than the sounds of fighting ever have. She takes deep breaths, feels the comforting weight of the .380 in her hand, thinks of the way Frank smiled in the moonlight when she picked it up off her nightstand. _Don’t die_ , she thinks, _please don’t die_.

She can still feel his lips against her forehead.

She waits for what feels like an eternity (it's probably only ten minutes) before she hears the hall door open, sees light come through the crack under the door as someone flips on the hall light.Hears footsteps moving down the hall. She sits up, aims her gun at the door, holds her breath. Prays, even though she quit believing in God years ago.

She prays to Frank now.

“Karen?” It's his voice outside the door, and she's so relieved she almost cries. “Karen, sweetheart, don't shoot me, please. I'm opening the door.”

She lowers the gun, slowly. The door opens, and Frank is there, silhouetted in the doorway. He flips on the bathroom light and Karen sucks in a breath.

“It's not mine,” he says, and she feels relieved all over again, and then a little horrified with herself. He's covered in blood, she shouldn't feel relieved about that, but she's just so glad none of it is his. “I'm gonna clean up, but then we have to get out of here. Twenty minutes max, okay? Go get dressed and pack a bag.”

“Wait, what? We're running?” Karen is shaking her head, _no, no, no_.

“Not far,” he says. “We'll stay in New York. We can't stay here though. I'm gonna call Bill, have him send a cleanup crew. You… you probably don't want to go out there.”

He slips out of the bathroom, she assumes to go get his bag and some clean clothes and make that phone call, and she stands there for a moment in a daze. Gives herself a shake. She steps out of the tub, starts the water for Frank so he won't have to wait for it to get hot, grabs her travel toiletries.

Back in her bedroom, she throws on a pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt, a hoodie. Tucks her gun into the waistband of her jeans. Laces up a pair of boots. Starts throwing things in a bag: extra clothes, the toiletries, charging cables, laptop, sneakers, wallet, passport (just in case). She ties her hair back in a low ponytail.

By the time Frank is out of the shower, she's ready to go. He comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed but still a little damp, eyes darker than ever. A bruise is blossoming over one cheekbone.

“Hey,” he says. He looks like sin, and she admonishes herself to focus on the problem at hand and not how much she wants to kiss Frank Castle.

“You okay? They didn't…” she trails off.

“I'm fine,” he says. “Sorry about your apartment. I, uh… kinda made a mess.”

She laughs. “I never would have guessed. But I'll take it, as opposed to the alternative.”

“Okay,” he says, almost smiling. “You about ready? We need to go.”

She nods, goes to gather up her bag. Throws a coat on — the early spring nights are still chilly. She meets Frank back in the hall, and he takes her hand, his duffel in his free hand.

He's touching her a lot more tonight than he has in the last few weeks, and Karen is glad for it. She'd been starting to think she imagined that kiss in her kitchen.

Out in the main room, the scent of blood is thick in the air. She knows Frank doesn't want her to see, but she looks around anyway. Four bodies litter the floor, two in the kitchen, one in the living room, one in the front hall. There's a lot of blood, and she swallows heavily. This. This is who Frank Castle is. A man who can kill four people in her apartment and then hold her hand gently afterward.

He notices her gaze. “Sorry,” he says again. She shakes her head.

“No. No, Frank… they'd have killed us both.” She's always hated that humans have never gotten past this, that in an age of modern technology and art and culture it still boils down to kill or be killed so much of the time. But she can't bring herself to be disappointed or horrified with Frank. He did what he had to. “Let’s go,” she tells him.

“Down the fire escape,” he says, going out the window ahead of her. He pauses, half in, half out. “You got everything?”

She takes a last look around the apartment. “Yeah, I'm good.”

He leads her down the fire escape, out of the alley. It takes her a couple minutes to realize they're not heading for her car; it's parked in the opposite direction. Two blocks later, he stops by a beat up old truck, and she realizes it must be his. He opens the passenger door, tosses their bags into the back seat, and bundles her in. He's buckling himself into the driver’s seat moments later.

They drive in circles for over an hour, and Karen is half asleep when Frank finally pulls over and parks. She sits up, looks around. They’re outside an apartment building, she thinks in Brooklyn.

“Where are we?” She asks. He flicks a glance at her, cagey again.

“My place,” he mutters, and she stares at him in surprise. “What?”

“I always thought you lived in some Cold War bunker or something,” she says, and he chuckles.

“Classy,” he says. He gathers their bags in one hand, ushering her out of the car and into the building, his hand on the small of her back. It’s way nicer than her place — he has a _doorman_ for fuck’s sake.

“Morning, Charlie,” he says as the older man opens the door for them.

“Good morning, Mr. Castiglione. Good morning, miss,” Charlie says, and Karen blushes a little, imagining what this looks like.

“Charlie, this is Karen. She had a house fire, so she’s gonna stay with me for a while.”

“Welcome to Brooklyn, Miss Karen.”

“Thanks, Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”

Inside, they take the elevator (he has an _elevator_ ) to the seventh floor. He opens the door of number 704.

His apartment is spacious, sparsely furnished but comfortable, with plate glass windows that open onto a balcony overlooking a nearby park. It’s still dark outside, but she imagines the view is great when you’re not exhausted and shaky from adrenaline.

“You should get some sleep,” Frank says. “You can have the bedroom, I’ll sleep out here.” Karen rolls her eyes.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I am not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“Come on, Karen,” he says, carrying her bag into the bedroom. “Just go to bed.” Karen is about to argue further when she catches sight of the bed in question.

It’s enormous.

“Jesus, Frank, that thing is huge.” He shrugs. Karen bites her lip. Won’t look at him. “We could both sleep in that thing for a week without ever seeing each other,” she says. He freezes. “Oh, relax. It just seems silly for either of us to sleep on the couch when this bed has so much space, is all.”

“Karen,” he starts, so she pulls out the big guns, not really sure why she’s pushing this so hard.

“Please? I don’t want to be alone.” That does it. It’s even the truth, though she wouldn’t say it to anyone else. Something about having assassins sent after her has made her a little reckless.

“I— okay,” he says, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She starts getting ready for bed, feeling suddenly exhausted. Kicks off her shoes, shucks her coat and hoodie, digs in her bag — only to realize that in her rush, she didn’t pack anything to sleep in.

“Frank,” she says, and he pokes his head out of the bathroom. “I forgot pajamas.”

He smirks at her, goes to his dresser. Tosses her a T-shirt. He disappears into the rest of the apartment, and she goes into the bathroom.

When she comes back out a little while later, Frank is already in bed. The apartment is dark, the only illumination coming from the lamp on his bedside table. The warm glow gilds his skin, gleams off his dark hair.

She’s in way over her head.

He looks over, and his eyes snag on her bare legs for a long moment before he makes a visible effort to focus on her face. “Cleanup crew is at your place,” he says. “You got anyone you need to call, let them know where you are?”

“No, I’ll tell Ellison what’s going on in the morning. Maybe call Foggy. It can all wait until it’s actual daylight out.” She hurries around to the other side of the bed, slides under the covers. Rolls onto her side, facing Frank. His gaze is steady on hers.

“Goodnight, Karen,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Frank,” she whispers back.

He turns off the light, and Karen falls asleep quickly, lulled by the even sound of his breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m working on three Kastle fics right now and all of them involve bedsharing, idk what’s wrong with me, send help.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters I’ve written so far, because FEELINGS. I love these two so freaking much.

Frank wakes up with Karen in his arms again.

This is why he told her he’d sleep on the couch. He’s no good at keeping this woman at arm’s length, and he really should keep her there. She deserves a better man than he is, someone stable and nice like that lawyer friend of hers with the dumb name, someone who still signs the name they were born with on their credit card slips, someone with a _lot_ less emotional baggage.

He starts to pull away, but Karen’s arms tighten around him. “Frank,” she says, her voice rough with sleep, and he gives up, snuggles closer, presses his forehead to hers. Karen makes a sleepy little hum of pleasure, and Frank thinks he must have died, only hell is a much nicer place than he’d been lead to believe because he’s certain no one would send him to heaven.

“What time is it?” She mumbles, her lips brushing against his, and it’s not a kiss but he’s rapidly losing control of his ability to keep from turning it into one.

He pulls back slightly, and Karen opens her eyes, her gaze steady.

“It's early,” he says. “Almost seven.”

She smiles at him, and he tries to remember all the reasons he stayed away from her all those months, all the reasons he told himself she was better off without him, but none of them ring true anymore. Her life is just as dangerous as his is, she’s a danger magnet whether he’s by her side or not, she knows his dark past and accepts it, saw his handiwork last night and didn’t even flinch.

“Karen,” he breathes her name like a prayer, and kisses her.

Her lips are soft and warm and she kisses him back, no hesitation. He pulls her closer, slides a hand under her shirt ( _his_ shirt) to span over her rib cage and she opens her mouth to him, licks his lower lip and smiles when he groans.

She pushes him over so he's lying on his back and she's leaning over him, her hair falling in a curtain around them, and he uses his other hand to brush it back. She's golden in the early morning light, and he's never seen anything so beautiful.

“You sure about this?” He says, voice rough with wanting her.

“Frank,” she says. “I've been waiting for you to catch up.”

“That right, Miss Page?”

“You sure took your time,” she teases.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am,” he says.

She laughs, then grows serious, eyes steady on Frank's. “I didn't want to push you. I've never wanted to push you. I know… I know I can't— that your family—” she can't go on, doesn't know how to say that she knows she'll never replace Frank's family, that she'd never want to even try. She looks at him helplessly, and god help her but she still wants to kiss him, even with the specters of his wife and children on her lips.

“Hey,” Frank says, cupping her face in his hands. “It's okay, Karen. It's okay.” He doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know how to tell her that the past few weeks with her have been the best of his life since that day at the carousel, that he hasn't felt this alive, this _human_ , in years. That she's his family now.

So instead he kisses her. If he can't find the words, yet, then he can at least _show_ her.

So he does. He makes love to her slowly in the sweet morning light. She kisses every one of his bruises, runs her fingers over every scar, lays claim to every inch of his skin, and he wonders if she knows that what she’s getting isn’t just his body, but his soul.

It's like coming home.

The next time he wakes up, he’s alone, and he panics for a moment before he realizes the shower is running in the bathroom. He gets up, goes out to the kitchen. Makes coffee. Wonders if it would be presumptuous to get in the shower with her. Decides the open bathroom door can only mean one thing.

She smiles when he opens the shower door.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he says, reaching for her. She pulls him under the water and he sputters a little, kisses her until they’re both breathless.

***

“Call your boss,” Frank says later, when they’re both dressed and drinking coffee in his kitchen. “And call Nelson, too.” She finds it amusing that he refuses to call him ‘Foggy.’ He hesitates for a moment. “Do… do you want to call Murdock?” She looks up sharply at that.

“Why would I call Matt?” She asks, and Frank scowls ferociously, but she’s not scared, she’s going to make him say it.

“You remember that night in the diner?” He asks her.

“I remember,” she says, thinking of his battered face, of the way he charmed the waitress, even looking like that, of him telling her to get everyone behind the biggest piece of stainless steel they could find so he could do what he always does.

Remembers, too, what he said about Matt, and how shocked she’d been. He hadn’t been wrong, not exactly. For a long time, she’d thought she’d loved Matt, or maybe she’d just been ready to love him. But even then, in that diner, that ship had already sailed off without her, and she hadn’t even been that sorry to see it go. She still cared about Matt, even when he kept pushing everyone around him away — he was worse even than Frank, in that regard — but it wasn’t that kind of love. She wasn’t sure it had ever been.

“Do you remember what we talked about?” Frank is frowning down at his coffee, not looking at her.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Looks at him, at this person whose gaze can pierce her soul and still not see the most obvious thing. She sets her coffee down, walks around the island to stand before him. Takes his coffee out of his hands and sets it on the counter, out of the way.

Holds his gaze as she very slowly, very deliberately, wraps both hands in the collar of his shirt.

“I remember,” she says.

_You have everything, so hold on to it._

_Use two hands, and never let go._

He’s breathing hard through his nose, eyes never leaving her face.

“I said something else, too,” he says, and she nods, she remembers that, too, knows exactly what he’s referring to.

_I’ll never feel that again._

“I was wrong,” he says, tears spilling down his face, but he still doesn’t look away. “I was wrong.”

Karen reaches up and cups his face in her hands, wipes his tears, only realizes she’s crying, too, when he mirrors her actions, thumbs swiping gently over her cheeks. He pulls her closer and she wraps her arms around his shoulders, buries her face in his neck. His hands are warm on her back, pressing her closer, closer.

She doesn’t pull away for a long while, until they’ve both quieted, their breathing back to normal.

“I thought you'd be more upset about… about what happened last night…” he says eventually.

Karen sighs. She's been thinking about it, too — she _should_ be more upset but she just… she can't bring herself to regret or disapprove of Frank's actions. They'd both be dead if it wasn't for him, and she can't blame him for making that choice.

“I just… I don't know if we'll ever completely agree about what you do, Frank,” she says. “But I can't judge you for choosing our lives over theirs. When it comes down to it… I'd have made the exact same decision. You'll notice I stayed in the tub.”

He laughs, a little humorlessly. “Well, at least you know how to follow rule number one.”

She presses her forehead to his, reveling in that closeness. She never thought she'd get this intimacy with Frank.

“You should make those phone calls,” he says eventually. She nods against him and waits a little longer before pulling out her phone.

She calls Ellison first. Fills him in, lets him know she won’t be in the office for another couple days.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. “And hey… tell Pete I said thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of you. I’ve already lost one friend to Wilson Fisk. Don’t want to lose another.”

“I’ll let him know,” she promises.

“You’ve got a new fan,” she tells Frank, after hanging up. “Ellison wanted me to tell you thank you, for protecting me.”

“I don’t do it for his thanks,” Frank mutters, but she can tell he’s pleased to be on Ellison’s good side.

Foggy is more difficult.

“Karen, I haven't heard from you in _weeks_ ,” he says before she even has a chance to say hello. “I had to find out from Matt's girlfriend that you're investigating Wilson Fisk again, and it's bad enough that she hired you a bodyguard?”

He's yelling, and she knows Frank can hear every word because his head snaps up when Foggy says ‘Matt's girlfriend.’ Karen shrugs at him. She hadn't mentioned it earlier because it didn't make a difference to her — she didn't want Matt. She wanted Frank.

“Foggy!” She finally yells over him, cutting him off mid-tirade. “Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I'm telling you now.” She gives him the same abbreviated version of the previous night's events she gave Ellison, adding in the earlier parts about her investigation and the tongue.

“Jesus, Karen,” Foggy says.

“There's something else,” she pauses, takes a deep breath. “The bodyguard Elektra hired… you know him.” There's a beat of silence.

“And how do I know this person?” He asks. She sighs.

“He's a former client,” she says.

“I have a lot of those, can you be more specific?”

“He, uh… well he goes by Pete Castiglione, now, but his case was the last one Nelson and Murdock took before I started working for the paper.” There's a beat of horrified silence.

“ _Are you kidding me?! Your bodyguard is the goddamn P—”_

“Foggy!” She yells again, trying to ignore Frank's smirk. “You can't say that over the phone.”

“Karen, I am seriously beginning to question your sanity,” he says, his voice tight.

“He saved my life four times _before_ Elektra hired him. Pretty sure I'm in the best possible hands here.”

“And I thought Matt was bad,” Foggy mutters. Shes not sure if he means their decision-making skills, their propensity for getting into dangerous situations, or their preference for romantic interests who have questionable pasts. Although he doesn't know about her and Frank yet, so she supposes that narrows it down. “Where are you?” He asks. She looks up at Frank, not sure if she can share their location with Foggy. He nods once.

“Pete's place. In Brooklyn. After last night… well, we couldn't stay in my apartment after that.”

“Send me the address, I'm going to come yell at you in person.” She rolls her eyes, but agrees to send it.

“It'll be from a different number,” she warns him. Frank is already pulling out his crappy burner phone, ready for her to give him Foggy’s number.

“I'll see you soon,” Foggy says, and hangs up.

“There's a very real possibility that he won't come alone,” Karen says after he's texted the address.

“You think he'll bring Murdock?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“We won't be able to hide this from Red,” Frank says, gesturing between them to indicate their fledgling relationship.

“Do you want to hide it?”

He shakes his head, no hesitation. “No. But I'd understand if you did.”

“I'm not ashamed of you, Frank. I'm not going to keep you a secret.” He smiles her favorite smile, the crooked one, glancing up at her from the corner of his eye.

He makes her breakfast, and they've finished eating and are just finishing the dishes when the intercom buzzes. Frank answers it, and an unfamiliar voice says, “good morning, Mr. Castiglione, there's a couple of lawyers here to see you. Nelson and Murdock.”

“Send them up, Jimmy. Thanks,” Frank says. Karen assumes Jimmy is the day doorman — Charlie must be home by now.

She dries her hands, goes to stand by the door with Frank. Present a united front, and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY FEELINGS AAHHHH


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever started writing something and totally loved it and then gotten really, supremely, monumentally stuck... and now you just really hate it???
> 
> Welcome to this fic. I HATE IT SO MUCH NOW. 
> 
> That ought to teach me to start posting before it is finished. Those of you who write as you go - I salute you, because it has royally bitten me in the ass this time around.
> 
> Anyway, here have a chapter that I don’t even know if it is good or bad or even just okay because I just... really hate this fic right now.

Frank is not used to having this many people in his apartment.

Nelson spends the first ten minutes telling Karen she's an idiot with a death wish. Frank isn't really sure if he's talking about the stuff with Fisk or about Frank being her bodyguard. Probably both. None of them have sat down; Frank and Karen are leaning against the back of the couch, side by side, shoulders brushing. Murdock is standing nearby, and Nelson is pacing around, waving his arms about to punctuate his sentences. Murdock, for his part, is unusually quiet.

“She's safe with me. She's always been safe with me,” Frank finally says, stopping Foggy in his tracks, for all that he didn't even raise his voice. “We could use your help, if you're done being an asshole to Karen.”

Nelson blinks, and Murdock does that thing, cocking his head, focus moving between Frank and Karen. Frank wonders what he can sense — do they smell like each other? Are their heartbeats in sync?

When Nelson draws breath to start in on Frank, Murdock cuts him off.

“Foggy,” he says, voice betraying his agitation. “They're…” he trails off, frowning.

“They're what?”

“Together,” Karen supplies. Foggy looks at her, at Frank, finally seems to notice how close they're standing to each other.

“Shit,” he says.

“Karen, what the hell,” Matt demands. “He's a _murderer_.”

“Oh, get off your high horse, Matt. How can you sit there and judge Frank when you have no qualms about putting people into comas or horribly maiming them? That's a pretty ridiculous line to feel morally superior about not crossing,” Karen snaps, and Frank puts a hand on the small of her back. Her eyes are blazing and her irritation has brought a pretty flush to her cheeks and he can't _not_ touch her, just then. “Besides,” she adds. “I'm not the only one here dating a murderer. So maybe stop acting so goddamn sanctimonious.” Frank raises his eyebrows at that, surprised both that Red’s morals had allowed him to stay with a woman who'd killed someone, and that any woman who occupied a moral grey area would be able to put up with his constant judging.

Matt flinches as though she's physically slapped him.

“Okay, I didn't think it could get worse,” Foggy says into the ensuing silence, and Frank smirks. “What do you need help with? Please don't ask me to represent you again, once was more than enough.” That last is directed to Frank, who rolls his eyes.

“We want to try and find a legal way to deal with Fisk,” Karen says. They'd talked about it over breakfast. Frank wanted to find Fisk and empty an AK-47 into him, but Karen wasn't having any of it. “You can't just shoot every problem you ever encounter,” she said, and he knew she was probably right, but it had worked out pretty well for him since that day at the carousel, and damn if it didn't sound a lot simpler to deal with things his way. Not to mention faster. In the end, she'd convinced him to at least give her the chance to do it legally.

So they'd agreed: Karen's way first, and only if that failed would they use Frank's way.

Nelson looks at her, at Frank, back at Karen.

“You got him to agree to that?” He asks, incredulous.

“I had to promise we could do it his way if my way fails, but yeah,” she shrugs. “It's called compromise, Foggy.” Frank chuckles, and she grins at him, and Nelson's mouth is hanging open. He turns to Murdock.

“Matt am I hallucinating? Did Karen just get the Punisher to agree to _not_ kill someone? Are they cracking jokes together?”

“That's what it sounds like,” Matt says, voice tight. “I'm proud of you, Frank.”

“Well shit, Red, thanks,” Frank scoffs, voice thick with sarcasm. That's just what he needs, the altar boy being proud of him. He gives Karen a look that says _this is what I deal with for you_. She just smiles. Leans into him a little bit.

“Jesus, stop that, I can't watch,” Nelson says, covering his face with one hand. It's Karen who rolls her eyes this time.

“Stop being dramatic,” she says. “Are you going to help us figure this out or not?”

To his credit, Nelson doesn't hesitate.

“Yeah, I'm in,” he says. “Matt?”

“I'm in, too,” Murdock says, after only a slight pause.

“You want me to call Micro?” Frank asks, and Karen nods.

“Yes, please, we can definitely use his skill set,” she says.David shows up less than an hour later, adding one more noisy body to Frank's normally-silent existence.

He's not sure why it's bugging him so much. He's spent hours in Karen's office, listening to her argue with Ellison and interview sources, he's spent days as security at society events or listening to billionaires argue with heir mistresses, but for some reason this is different.

He knows it's not Karen, because he's lived with her the last three weeks, and their lifestyles fit together pretty damn seamlessly during that time. The only time they clashed was when he and Ellison wouldn't let her go into the office (he's bracing for the next fight, since he and Ellison are going to try and keep her away from the _Bulletin_ again). He thinks it might be Nelson, who he respects but isn't sure he likes (no love lost there), or Murdock, whose preachiness is endlessly grating. He supposes he's used to David's particular brand of irritation.

Maybe it's just that he's not used to this type of research, the kind with nebulous end goals, the kind that isn't expected to end with him filling some shitbag mobster full of lead.

Eventually he escapes to the balcony for a bit, though it's really too cold to enjoy it properly. He's standing there, leaning over with his hands gripping the railing, when Karen finds him. He's been out there for thirty minutes, long enough that when she stands close to him he realizes he's cold only because she feels so warm.

She hands him a cup of coffee, slips an arm around his waist when he straightens to accept it.

“Too much?” She asks, jerking her head to indicate the commotion in his apartment as his arm falls over her shoulders.

“I thought living with David was bad,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Guess I'm just not used to this many people in my space.” He presses a kiss to her temple so she'll know he doesn't mean her. Karen starts to say something. Stops. Tries again.

“David told me you've been going to a support group,” she says, her voice hesitant. “You've been skipping it, for me.” It's not a question.

“David never could keep his mouth shut,” he says.

“It's tonight, isn't it?” He nods. “I think you should go.” He starts to protest but she cuts him off. “Look, Matt's here, right? I know he can be preachy, but he's also perfectly capable of making sure no hit squads get me for the, what, two hours you'd be gone? You've already missed two weeks because of me. I don't want to make it three.”

He sighs into her hair, but she's right. Murdock’s about the only person he'd trust to keep her safe. He's fought the guy himself, fought beside him too, knows what he's capable of. And he really should go to group. It helps.

Curt’s probably ready to beat him with his fake leg for missing two weeks in a row, as it is.

“Okay,” he says, and she presses her lips to his neck.

“Come inside, Frank,” she says. “Before you freeze to death.”

“It's not _that_ cold,” he argues, but he follows her inside.

Nelson and David are arguing about something or other, but Murdock meets him in the kitchen.

“You could have called before now,” Red says, somewhat accusatory, though he keeps his voice low. “Karen was worried about you.” Frank’s eyebrows shoot up — this is a bit of an about-face from Matt's earlier protests of their relationship. And it's not like he didn't _want_ to call Karen. He'd stopped himself from reaching out pretty much every day since the hotel. There had been a few times where he'd found his phone in his hand, his finger hovering over her contact, but he always talked himself out of it.

It seems stupid now. But he really did have a lot to figure out, and he hadn't wanted to put that on her. He hadn't wanted to endanger her with his presence, either.

He's going to have to buy Elektra Natchios flowers or something.

“I assume you heard us out there,” he says, changing the subject. Murdock doesn't pretend ignorance.

“Yes, and of course I'll stay here while you're out. I can come back next week, too.”

“Thanks, Red. We should figure this shit out with Fisk quickly, though. That woman does _not_ like having a babysitter. She's letting it be her idea this week cause she's worried about me, but that's not gonna last.”

Murdock nods. “We will,” he says. “When do you need to leave?”

“In about an hour.”

He nods, claps Frank on the shoulder. Heads back to the dining room table, seamlessly jumping into an argument Karen is having with David.

 

After group, he and Curtis shoot the shit for a while.

“Been worried about you, man,” Curtis says, so Frank fills him in on the last couple weeks. “I told you, didn't I? I told you to call her.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm never gonna hear the end of this am I?” Frank says, but he's laughing.

“Am I ever going to get to meet her?”

“Yeah, Curt. Gotta introduce her to my family at some point, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers,
> 
> If you have read this far, THANK YOU.
> 
> I have two more chapters written, I hate them too, I’ll probably post them anyway because whatever. But I am seriously doubting whether I will ever finish this fic.
> 
> I’m sorry.
> 
> I do have like four other Kastle wips, plus some follow-ups to my other posted fics that are in process. So the future isn’t ALL bleak.
> 
> Love you <3


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